wish sometimes that you would commit a murder.’
‘Mon cher!’
‘Yes, I’d like to see just how you’d set about it.’
‘My dear Japp, if I committed a murder you would not have the least chance of seeing—how I set about it! You would not even be aware, probably, that a murder had been committed.’
Japp laughed good-humouredly and affectionately.
‘Cocky little devil, aren’t you?’ he said indulgently.
At half-past eleven the following morning, Hercule Poirot’s telephone rang.
‘’Allo? ’Allo?’
‘Hullo, that you, Poirot?’
‘Oui, c’est moi.’
‘Japp speaking here. Remember we came home last night through Bardsley Gardens Mews?’
‘Yes?’
‘And that we talked about how easy it would be to shoot a person with all those squibs and crackers and the rest of it going off?’
‘Certainly.’
‘Well, there was a suicide in that mews. No. 14. A young widow—Mrs Allen. I’m going round there now. Like to come?’
‘Excuse me, but does someone of your eminence, my dear friend, usually get sent to a case of suicide?’
‘Sharp fellow. No—he doesn’t. As a matter of fact our doctor seems to think there’s something funny about this. Will you come? I kind of feel you ought to be in on it.’
‘Certainly I will come. No. 14, you say?’
‘That’s right.’
Poirot arrived at No. 14 Bardsley Gardens Mews almost at the same moment as a car drew up containing Japp and three other men.
No. 14 was clearly marked out as the centre of interest. A big circle of people, chauffeurs, their wives, errand boys, loafers, well-dressed passers-by and innumerable children were drawn up all staring at No. 14 with open mouths and a fascinated stare.
A police constable in uniform stood on the step and did his best to keep back the curious. Alert-looking young men with cameras were busy and surged forward as Japp alighted.
‘Nothing for you now,’ said Japp, brushing them aside. He nodded to Poirot. ‘So here you are. Let’s get inside.’
They passed in quickly, the door shut behind them and they found themselves squeezed together at the foot of a ladder-like flight of stairs.
A man came to the top of the staircase, recognized Japp and said:
‘Up here, sir.’
Japp and Poirot mounted the stairs.
The man at the stairhead opened a door on the left and they found themselves in a small bedroom.
‘Thought you’d like me to run over the chief points, sir.’
‘Quite right, Jameson,’ said Japp. ‘What about it?’
Divisional Inspector Jameson took up the tale.
‘Deceased’s a Mrs Allen, sir. Lived here with a friend—a Miss Plenderleith. Miss Plenderleith was away staying in the country and returned this morning. She let herself in with her key, was surprised to find no one about. A woman usually comes in at nine o’clock to do for them. She went upstairs first into her own room (that’s this room) then across the landing to her friend’s room. Door was locked on the inside. She rattled the handle, knocked and called, but couldn’t get any answer. In the end getting alarmed she rang up the police station. That was at ten forty-five. We came along at once and forced the door open. Mrs Allen was lying in a heap on the ground shot through the head. There was an automatic in her hand—a Webley .25—and it looked a clear case of suicide.’
‘Where is Miss Plenderleith now?’
‘She’s downstairs in the sitting-room, sir. A very cool, efficient young lady, I should say. Got a head on her.’
‘I’ll talk to her presently. I’d better see Brett now.’
Accompanied by Poirot he crossed the landing and entered the opposite room. A tall, elderly man looked up and nodded.
‘Hallo, Japp, glad you’ve got here. Funny business, this.’
Japp advanced towards him. Hercule Poirot sent a quick searching glance round the room.
It was much larger than the room they had just quitted. It had a built-out bay window, and whereas the other room had been a bedroom pure and simple, this was emphatically a bedroom disguised as a sitting-room.
The walls were silver and the ceiling emerald green. There were curtains of a modernistic pattern in silver and green. There was a divan covered with a shimmering emerald green silk quilt and numbers of gold and silver cushions. There was a tall antique walnut bureau, a walnut tallboy, and several modern chairs of gleaming chromium. On a low glass table there was a big ashtray full of cigarette stubs.
Delicately Hercule Poirot sniffed the air. Then he joined Japp where the latter stood looking down at the body.
In a heap on the floor, lying as she had fallen from one of the chromium chairs, was the body of a young woman of perhaps twenty-seven. She had fair hair and delicate features. There was very little make-up on the face. It was a pretty, wistful, perhaps slightly stupid face. On the left side of the head was a mass of congealed blood. The fingers of the right hand were clasped round a small pistol. The woman was dressed in a simple frock of dark green high to the neck.
‘Well, Brett, what’s the trouble?’
Japp was looking down also at the huddled figure.
‘Position’s all right,’ said the doctor. ‘If she shot herself she’d probably have slipped from the chair into just that position. The door was locked and the window was fastened on the inside.’
‘That’s all right, you say. Then what’s wrong?’
‘Take a look at the pistol. I haven’t handled it—waiting for the fingerprint men. But you can see quite well what I mean.’
Together Poirot and Japp knelt down and examined the pistol closely.
‘I see what you mean,’ said Japp rising. ‘It’s in the curve of her hand. It looks as though she’s holding it—but as a matter of fact she isn’t holding it. Anything else?’
‘Plenty. She’s got the pistol in her right hand. Now take a look at the wound. The pistol was held close to the head just above the left ear—the left ear, mark you.’
‘H’m,’ said Japp. ‘That does seem to settle it. She couldn’t hold a pistol and fire it in that position with her right hand?’
‘Plumb impossible,
